Prima

by Alta Hensley

  How dare he come up to my home, blowing my mind by looking like he’d stepped off the cover of a GQ magazine, then offer me a glimpse of a life I once knew? He’d claimed not to be a practical joker, but he’d pulled the cruelest tease ever.

  “Clara?” I heard my grandmother call out. “Can you come in here for a moment?”

  I sighed deeply and wandered into the kitchen where my grandmother slumped slightly over the table, clearly suffering from a lot of pain. I hated seeing her this way. I had always known her to be a really strong, powerful woman. But as soon as the osteoarthritis started its insidious degeneration of the cartilage and tissues surrounding her joints, she’d begun to crumble.

  Once Olga Simyoneva had been the most beautiful and skilled dancer in the small Russian village of her birth. She’d never made it to the Bolshoi Ballet as Nadia Volkova had, but I’d sat at her feet listening to her spin tales of a world that had sounded so full of magic it took one’s breath away. Where ugly ducklings turned into the most beautiful swans and where princesses were swept away by the charming princes. I’d known since I could talk that I’d been named Clara after the little girl whose dance told the wonderous fairy tale of enchantment in The Nutcracker.

  My babushka had instilled in me a love of ballet before I’d ever slipped into my first pair of pink satin flats. Now the disease was crippling her a little more every day, and it absolutely shattered me to see her knuckles and feet so swollen and twisted it was a huge effort to hold a cup of tea or walk more than a few steps. Though she tried to disguise her pain, I could see it in her eyes. I needed to be here for her, as much as she didn’t want to be a burden to me, but I was more than happy to do it.

  “What was that about?” she asked me curiously, pushing to stand as straight as she could as she gestured toward the window above the kitchen sink. “I thought I heard a man talking outside.”

  “Oh, that was nothing.”

  I did my best to brush it off, but it was too late for that. From the way the lacy curtains were blowing with the draft, I knew the window was open. I had no doubt that my grandmother had been eavesdropping on my entire conversation with Alek Volkov. My grandmother had been trying to convince me to get back into ballet since I returned home from rehab, and this was only going to make it so much worse.

  “You want a drink of water or something? When was the last time you took your pain pills?” I asked, trying to move on from any thoughts or discussion of Alek.

  “You know you should be welcoming his offer with open arms,” she said, completely ignoring my questions as well as dropping any pretense she was ignorant of what had occurred outside. “You were born to dance, Clara. You shouldn’t be shut up here in this house, looking after an old woman and trying to teach spoiled children who’d rather be playing games on their cell phones than learning even the basic poses any serious dancer could do in their sleep. This isn’t the way your life should be. Child, it’s not the story written for you.”

  “We’ve had this conversation many times. I blew it,” I said softly, with more than a twinge of regret. “I made my choices, and now I have to deal with the consequences.”

  “Don’t give me that,” she shot back as she grimaced, fingers tightening on the back of her chair as she attempted to disguise the pain her outburst had cost her. “Clara, you made a mistake—”

  “A mistake?” I scoffed sarcastically, giving a rather unladylike snort. “Baba, I made so many I can’t even give you a number.”

  At the risk of losing her precarious balance, she lifted her hand and shook her finger at me. “It’s not polite to interrupt your elders, young lady. It doesn’t matter how many mistakes you made. We all make them. You shouldn’t be punished forever because of one. And that man came here to speak to you. That seems like a clear second chance to me. You should go to that theater and see what you think. I know you dance in the garage, but what would be the harm of dancing in a real studio with actual dancers? There’s no reason you can’t work out a bit, burn off some of the angst I know you feel when you sit up late at night and watch those old videos of the ballet you don’t think I know about. Clara, wouldn’t it be nice to see how it feels again? Before you lose the gift forever?”

  She paused and, while she took several deep breaths, I knew she was thinking about the abilities the arthritis had stolen when it began to sink its evil claws into her joints. Shaking her head, she lifted her face, and I saw it light with a glow as she smiled, refusing to allow the disease to take her spirit.

  “Besides, child, think about how far that gorgeous man’s chiseled jaw will drop when you try out and beat any poor soul he tries to put up against you.”

  God, I so loved her and couldn’t stop a smile at her teasing. Still, as satisfying as that would be, one of us had to face reality. “I can’t. What about you?” I walked over to the sink to pour her a glass of water. “Plus, I have my hands busy with my classes,” I lied.

  Whatever my dreams were, whatever I wanted, I needed to be there for her. She could argue all she wanted, but she relied heavily on me, and that was all there was to it. She needed me on her good days, and she definitely needed me when she was suffering. When that pain was radiating through her fragile body, she couldn’t do a single thing for herself. The time of attempting to bury my head in the sand and ignore what was right in front of my face had ended four years ago. I wasn’t about to ignore the fact my place was right here, regardless of what she said.

  “What about me? I’ll be fine.”

  It was exactly like her to put my needs first, but it really wasn’t so simple.

  “Just because some man came here, doesn’t mean the ballet world would trust me and welcome me back with open arms. I don’t think anyone ever will again. I doubt I’d even get a part in the corps de ballet much less a starring role.”

  What I thought but didn’t dare say was I was positive I’d get a middle finger and a forcefully delivered “fuck you” instead.

  “I don’t want to get my hopes up because some naïve little boy who is in over his head with Mommy’s business that he knows nothing about says so,” I added feeling an almost desperate need to get out of the house, and I needed to do it before my grandmother kept harping on me. “Besides, who needs a theater to dance?” Looking out the window, the sight of a blue jay gave me my excuse. “I’ve got to pick those strawberries before the birds take them all. I know how much you enjoy them added to your yogurt.”

  I handed my grandmother the glass of water and her pills off the counter before helping her into a chair. “I love the fact that you’re my hero, Baba, but it’s best not to go back,” I said, bending to kiss a cheek as soft as crepe paper. Blinking rapidly to keep welling tears at bay, I gave her a gentle hug, grabbed a colander from the cabinet, and left before she could say another word.

  I wanted the fresh air to help me forget about everything, but somehow it didn’t quite work out that way. Instead, ballet was all I could think about. I remembered my glory days when things were amazing. I recalled when dancing was my entire life, when it was all I cared about. I tried to picture being back on the stage again. Tried to imagine how it might have been if I’d not fallen into the arms of Nikolai Kosloff and had not stepped into the pile of shit that came later. Would I be able to do it? To go back to that life. Even though it had been four years, would the rest of the world still blame and hate me for what had happened?

  Brushing aside the furry green leaves of a plant, I plucked the red berry and added it to the colander. Why did Alek have to come and complicate my existence by offering me a chance to regain the life I’d thrown away? Another berry was exposed, picked, and added to my harvest even as I had to blink again. The man might have succeeded in bringing tears to my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. The raucous scolding call of the jay had me damning another male for re-sparking my heart’s deepest desire. Giving an angry swipe of my sleeve against my cheek, I moved to another row of plants, lifting leaves and snatching ripe strawberries f
rom their stems before allowing the leaves to fall back into place to cover those not yet ready to leave the sanctuary of their home. Why couldn’t Alek have simply let things lie? Why had he planted the seed of my stepping from the safety of my own hiding place? Shaking my head didn’t keep the devil on my shoulder from joining the conversation.

  Would it be totally crazy to go to the theater if you think of it as working out rather than a potential career change?

  I pondered the question and then shook if off. It wasn’t only crazy, it would be stepping into dangerous territory. One that would suck me back in before I knew it. Wouldn’t it be letting my students down if I stopped teaching? I didn’t want whatever I did to be something I ended up regretting.

  Seriously? Like a few adjustments of class schedules won’t allow you to do both?

  I suppose the largest elephant in the room was the question of if I stayed behind in the safe little boring world I’d created, would I always wonder what if? And speaking of what ifs, if I went, would it just be another mistake?

  I’d barely survived the first time I’d failed.

  Would I be setting myself up to fail again?

  What was that saying? Oh right…

  Once a fuck up, always a fuck up.

  Finding no answers, I sighed and, deciding I had enough fruit to prepare breakfast, and making sure there was no trace of my tears, I went back into the house.

  3

  Alek

  I flicked my eyes over the potential candidates entering the theater for auditions today. Unfortunately, I wasn’t experiencing positive vibes from any of them. This certainly hadn’t been the way I’d hoped this would go. Clara Simyoneva vehemently had declared the ballet was something she was no longer interested in, and while I’d seen the lie in eyes that were the most incredible shade of green, there really wasn’t much I could do. I’d made her an offer, and when that hadn’t worked, I’d taunted her. Hell, I’d even tossed down the gauntlet by stating perhaps she was out of shape and suggesting a younger woman could dance rings around the former star.

  Who was I kidding?

  She could attempt to hide beneath that wrinkled shirt hanging off her frame and the plaid pants flapping around legs that were the envy of millions of women, but unless she pulled a paper bag over her head, she couldn’t fool me.

  High cheekbones told of a timeless beauty. The prominent hollow of a collarbone revealed when the oversized shirt slid off a shoulder, the long thin fingers clutching a stack of mail and the delicate wrists that could hold a pose for hours told the true story. Clara’s beauty had only been enhanced by the inner demons she’d been fighting for the past few years.

  As much as I wanted the beautiful, tortured ballerina who had turned every male head and possibly many a female’s since she’d completed her first pirouette, I had a company to run and a ballet to produce.

  Sighing, I looked down at the list in front of me and picked up my pencil. I’d forced myself to sign up some other dancers to audition. Although my gut told me they wouldn’t be anywhere near as good as Clara, they were at least newbies, which meant there shouldn’t be any contractual issues or arrogance. They needed Volkov Ballet more than we needed them. I did prefer to be in a position of power.

  Who needed Clara when I had a room full of dancers who stood ready to dance their asses off? I hoped they were thick-skinned because as talented as they thought they were, Yuri’s choreography was going to chew them up, spit them out, and then stomp on whatever regurgitated mess was left.

  The fact a famous ballerina had been holed up in my city for the last few years had come as rather a shock. Her presence would likely still be unknown if it hadn’t been for a pitcher of beer and my good friend Nelson Baker. Baker had listened to me bitch and moan about how my life was ruined with the news it wasn’t one baby or even two… it was triplets.

  “You aren’t the first man whose life’s plans were derailed by the news of impending fatherhood, but granted, you’re the only one I know who was hit by a triple-whammy,” Baker had said, chuckling as he lifted his mug. “Congratulations, Papa. Wow, who knew you had it in you?”

  It had taken my fuzzy brain a moment before I reacted and actually spewed out the mouthful of lager I’d not yet swallowed. “Not me, you ass,” I said after wiping the foam from my lips. “I’m talking about Olivia, our principal ballerina. She’s having triplets, and her doctor has ordered her on bedrest until she delivers the little rug rats.”

  “Ahhh, and you’ve now got a hole in your lineup,” he said and, when I nodded, he topped off our mugs and then proceeded to tell me about an interview he’d done a few months back. By the time he was done, my jaw had dropped, and all thoughts of drowning my sorrows had switched to figuring out a way to pull Clara out of hiding and into my ballet company.

  The info Baker had given me wasn’t enough, hence, as soon as I’d left Clara’s house, I’d gone online to do a bit of research on her. I wanted to know what the massive issue was that was holding her back from what she’d been put on the earth to do. What had her exchanging the penthouse for some small saltbox house in Lincoln Square and designer couture for thrift store clothing? Though I truly understood the deep sense of responsibility to family, I felt she’d laid it on a bit too thick about the need to take care of her ailing grandmother. Love was a two-way street, and I was willing to bet her grandmother would rather her beloved granddaughter follow her dreams than fetch and carry for her. Hell, there were dozens of agencies willing to aid in homecare, individuals trained to do that very thing just as Clara had been trained to dance.

  I was determined to discover what tidbits of this story I was missing.

  Shit, it was ridiculous how much stories were often sensationalized and how deep you had to plow in to find out the truth. From doing a lot of digging around and wading through the bullshit, I eventually discovered the consensus was Clara had gotten into the grips of addiction, and it made her act recklessly. There were a lot of other reports suggesting some terrible things. There were countless pictures and gossip about her sleeping with just about every man who was anybody in New York City, but I didn’t know how much of it I believed until I clicked the Image button on my screen and pictures started popping up like crazy. Clara on the arm of some up-and-coming movie star standing on the red carpet. Clara perfectly coiffed and made-up beaming as she looked up at the pro football player who appeared capable of easily snapping her in two. I clicked through photo after photo and noticed she was seldom seen with the same man twice. Instead, it appeared she flitted from man to man like a bee to a flower.

  Whoa.

  A double click brought the next photo up in all its glory. Or perhaps gory might better describe what I was seeing. The beauty looked a bit beastly, her eyes wild, her hair disheveled, and her dress hiked up to her ass as she was caught outside some skyscraper on Central Park West bending over and relieving herself of whatever she’d put into her body, her “date” of the evening conveniently out of the frame except for the back of his head as he walked away.

  Okay, the stories about wild parties and even wilder sex, I might be able to buy, even some drug and alcohol abuse wasn’t beyond belief, but I’d doubted the claims of Clara hanging with some notorious mob-related people. I thought it was all blown out of proportion because of who she was, and how famous she was becoming back then. Doubted the validity until another swipe of my finger brought the proof into stark relief.

  It appeared the socialite had traded her cadre of men for a slew of men wearing dark suits, stern, suspicious expressions, and bulges beneath their armpits that suggested they were carrying. These men weren’t even interested in Clara… they appeared to be focused on the sole man who had begun to appear in every single photograph.

  Seeing Clara in the arms of the notorious Nikolai Kosloff in front of the theater where she was the principal dancer, told me a totally different story. Perhaps one I’d not wished to acknowledge.

  Had Clara gotten in bed with the Russian
mafia?

  Even with the evidence staring up at me from the screen, to me, it didn’t seem reason enough to keep her away from the ballet forever.

  A final photo of Clara with her arm wrapped around the waist of a petite older woman reminded me of what she’d claimed. Damn… if the look on the face in the aged yet still beautiful face in the photo was any indication, then I’d been wrong. Pain was hiding beneath the small smile she was giving her granddaughter. Clara might not be lying about her grandmother needing her to the point dancing had been set aside for love of family.

  It was a fucking shame, but it was something I’d find easier to wrap my mind around rather than Clara allowing herself to be used and abused by some asshole member of the bratva until she was as heartless as they were. Hell, if what I’d read was even close to the truth, forget dancing, the former ballerina was lucky to still be breathing.

  A loud bang had my blood pressure skyrocketing and my head shooting up. Grateful to see nothing more threatening than a young woman righting a metal folding chair that had fallen over, I set questions about Clara aside and got back to work.

  “Okay, everyone,” I called out to the prospective dancers in front of me. “Yuri will be here soon enough to explain the process of the audition to you, but until he gets here, it would be to your benefit if you spend your time stretching and warming up rather than standing around.” When the majority simply looked around at each other, I shook my head. “Might I suggest you remember the moment you stepped onto the stage your audition began. You’re dancing against each other as well as trying to impress me enough to be one of the few — the very few — I’ll keep in the lineup. When you’re ready, spread out across the stage, and we can start and go from there…”

  My words trailed off as I spotted a familiar figure entering the theater. One whom I really hadn’t expected to see moving across the room.